“You still need to fix my car,” he says warningly, eyes straight ahead as he drives to my hotel, a smile curving his mouth.
“No, I haven’t agreed you’re the best driver in the world yet.”
“Best kisser too.”
“Really.”
“Baby …” he rolls his eyes.
“I don’t agree on that either,” I lie, shaking my still-woozy head. He laughs quietly, and then we ride in silence with my mind going a thousand miles a minute wondering if I’m going to regret this. Why am I doing this? My mind still on the cherry-red mustang—and the motherfucking, crazy-ass devil behind the wheel.
He’s the best street racer I’ve ever seen. My heart is still wanting to leap out of my throat.
How long has it been since I’ve seen driving like that?
Have I ever—ever—seen driving like that? Certainly not in the streets. And if this guy—the guy I found on the internet, Racer Tate, can do what he just did with a mustang, I can’t even begin to imagine what he can do with an F1 engine.
On my flight here I couldn’t sleep for fear I wouldn’t find anyone good enough. Promising enough.
Now I doubt I’ll get sleep tonight wondering if I’ve found him and whether I have balls enough to actually go get him.
Street cars aren’t like F1 cars. They drive differently, and while one guy can dominate one kind of car, he can totally fail at another.
And not only that, but …
There’s some sort of weird chemistry leaping between us that I can’t deny. Yes, maybe I need to get laid, but maybe working with a guy I’m so attracted to isn’t the best idea.
He’s so damn good I can’t imagine not asking him to come with us. I’m nervous when he asks for my hotel name and drives me there, and still nervous as he parks my car and comes open the door to my side. I rub my clammy hands together as I step out, aware of his eyes raking me hungrily, top to bottom.
“Come here.” He reaches out to shut the door behind me and tug me towards him with his free hand. “Come here,” he rasps again, his gaze intense and so hungry he looks down at me like a lion as he reels me in, looking so hungry I’m shaking in my knees. “Come up on your toes and kiss me.”
“Why,” I breathe.
A brief smile. “Because I asked you to.”
“You’re arrogant and self-centered.”
“You’ve seen nothing, baby. Come on. Do it.”
I hesitate.
He smiles, grabs my ass, lifts me, sets me on the hood of my car in the hotel parking lot, devours my mouth visually with his eyes as he leans over and brushes my mouth with his, and then proceeds to devour it with his mouth too. “I wanted to let you take it easy, do it your way. So you don’t. We do it my way now,” he rasps menacingly, locking his mouth with mine again.
He kisses me for a whole minute.
Hotly.
Perfectly.
Completely.
I like his way better but I’ll never admit it out loud.
His smile fades as he eases back to let us catch our breaths; his eyes shadow darkly as his gaze trails my face slowly, almost in amusement but also with something really sober there too. “Fuck, you turn me on.” His eyes gleam brilliant as he helps me down, takes my hand, and leads me toward the lobby.
He laughs to himself and shakes his head. “You had to be staying in this hotel, didn’t you?” he asks me with a small frown.
I frown, not understanding what he’s saying.
He clenches my hand in his and leads me toward the revolving doors. And I can feel the gut he put in his driving in the way he’s commanding me, in the certainty of his stride and the way he holds my hand as if it’s his to hold.
He leads us to the elevator bank when out of the corner of my eye I see the young girl who was with him at the IndyCar track.
She runs over from the end of the lobby while her father—his father—follows more calmly.
“I thought you’d meet us after dinner with her!” she says, eyes wide.
Racer looks down at her, his eyes sliding to his father, and then back at her.
“We ran late.” He looks at me, and I realize his family maybe doesn’t know about the illegal race tonight. He told his family he was … having dinner with me?
“Iris, this is Lana. Dad. Lana, my sister and my dad,” Racer says in an exasperated tone, as if he knows there’s no getting around it.
“Nice to meet you.” I smile at his sister and then his handsome dad. “We’re done though,” I quickly add, smiling as I pry my hand free of Racer’s hold.
This was insane—what I was about to do.
Seeing his family look at him in concern, and me in interest (as if they want to know who I am to him) only makes me remember my own.
“Thank you for dinner,” I tell Racer, and I can see the shadows in his eyes as I step into the elevator alone and hold his gaze as the elevator door closes.
His angry
Lust-filled
Possessive
Gaze.
I lean back on the elevator mirror and exhale.
“Fuck,” I groan.
I was about to go to bed with the guy and then what? I didn’t come here for a fling, I came here for a driver, and Tate is a damn good one too.
I pull out my key and head to my room, then shut myself inside and pace the shit out of the carpet.
Focus, Lana! I scold myself, trying to calm down my body.
After a few minutes, I feel more sane and go through what I found.
Racer Tate. He reportedly started street-racing when he was eighteen … his talent blew everyone out of the water. But he was difficult, and he didn’t play well with others. Off the track, he got in a fight with one of his competitors when he took Racer out on the first curve. Racer didn’t like it. It was all over the news—he was arrested—his parents intervened—he moved from Seattle to St. Petersburg and “cleaned” his act. Until he was spotted racing and the rumors began.